Chapter 10: What's It About? - James

"So what's the correct task for that one..." I rest my forefinger on the waxed-leather hilt of one, perhaps the length of my hand... "... for example?"

Klempner picks it up, holds it as though testing the weight. "This is a throwing knife. You notice how blade and handle both taper?" He follows the line of each with a finger-tip, illustrating... "That helps it to spin. You might also notice that there's not much edge to the blade. The tip is the part that needs to be sharp." He sniffs. "Nothing says stealth attack better than a knife spinning silently out of the dark."

Hmmm...

I tap another one, much larger, more robust. "How about that one?"

"Survival knife. Multi-purpose. You can use it for anything from dressing game to digging a hole to eating a meal."

"And that?" I aim a finger at the saw-tooth monster at the end of the row.

His lips quirk. "That one isn't for using. It's purely for effect. I've never done anything more with it than wave it in the air."

I ponder for a moment. "You mean, it's for scaring the bejeezus out of your target?"

"You've got it." He grins. If sharks could flash their brows, it would have the same effect. "James, are you here so we can swap professional tips?"

"No, I'm not. What's on your mind?"

Brow furrowed, "Sorry, James?"

"Gun maintenance is your aide memoir when you have something to think about. What are you thinking about?"

He smiles slightly. "Quite right. I was considering Kirstie and Ryan's little conundrum."

"Their stolen equipment?"

"Just so."

He takes the widget he was working on as I arrived, setting it at the end of a neat row of other gizmos, doodads and other death-dealing doohickeys. Picking out another, he holds it up against the lamplight, examining it closely, first from one side, then the other. "I can't help with dress-making and catering. And I'm sure that Michael will see that their guests are comfortable. But I see no reason not to make my own contribution to seeing that the wedding of the year goes off smoothly."

"That's good of you, considering you barely know them. What have you come up with?"

"Not much, so far. Except that I need more information."

"If I can help, let me know."

"I'll do that." He replaces the spectacle-loupes. "Is that everything?"

"Is that my desk lamp?"

"I'll replace it when I'm done. Anything else?"

"Ah... I was looking for Charlotte?"

"With her mother and Beth, I believe, hatching wedding plans with Kirstie. I think you'll find them in the dining room."

*****

Laughter and chatter spills through the door. I give a brief tap and walk straight in...

"Charlotte, I..."

... then realise my mistake, halt in mid-step, spinning to leave. "Sorry, bad timing."

Kirstie is, not exactly undressed, but not exactly dressed either. The layers of corsetry and petticoats she's wearing definitely qualify as undergarments. On the other hand, she's showing less skin than the Regency heroine of some Austen Romance. I've certainly walked in on a woman in her underwear. But I can't claim to have seen anything that wouldn't be perfectly proper were she seated at her desk in the main foyer of the Haswell offices.

"Not at all, James," purrs Mitch. "It's very good timing. Take a seat. This is Kirstie's final dress fitting. You can tell us what you think. We could use a male opinion."

"Um..." I hover. "That alright by you, Kirstie? You're er..." I wave a hand in the general direction of layer upon layer of... Of what? Skirts, petticoats, corsetry... Something to the rear, padding her backside...

The tall, elegant girl gives me a nervous smile. "That's fine, James. I don't think I've ever felt so overdressed."

Beth Tuts. "It looks beautiful on you, Kirstie. It suits you very well, and the outfit will be a lot warmer than the usual meringue outfit. Let's just get it on you, then we can all see the full effect."

The dress is a poem in cream lace and satin. Kirstie is tall and statuesque, not particularly full-figured, but Mitch has... constructed... the dress to make the most of all its wearer's best features: Kirstie's height, her long legs, her elegant stance.

The bodice, corsetted and beautifully fitted, emphasises her waist and makes more of her modest bosom. But her slender arms and the curve of her lovely swan neck are emphasised. The dress gathers in tiers over the layers underneath and Kirstie's long, dark hair falls in soft waves under a veil which sweeps over the whole as far as her waist.

And as I look more closely, here and there, in the subtlest of effects, butterflies flit through lace and satin, the palest of pale greens against the cream background. I shift left, then right, seeing one, then another as the light catches them. The wings seem to flutter and move. I know it's optical trickery. I've seen Mitch do this before with paint and plaster, but I didn't think it could be done with...

With...?

How the hell does she do that?

Embroidery?

Hand-worked?

It must have taken her days...

Weeks?

All that time, while she was waiting for Klempner to be found...

"Did you make all this, Mitch?"

"Ah-ha." She stands back, a finger pressed to her lips as she considers the product of her labours. "It's the first time I've tackled anything so complex as this. It took forever to make the corset with the boning."

Charlotte says, "Well it's having the intended effect. I should think boning will be right at the front of Ryan's mind when he sees Kirstie in it."

I throw her a look and Charlotte drops her head and subsides. But there's no missing the grin plastered over her supposedly submissive expression.

Kirstie flushes.

Mitch straightens up, folds arms. "So, what do you think, James?"

Kirstie winds her fingers together in that way she has. "You think Ryan will like it? It's so.... elaborate. I've never worn anything like this before."

Ye gods...

"Kirstie, that's the point. It's your wedding day. And I wouldn't worry about Ryan. You look... astonishing... He won't know what's hit him." I wind a finger in the air. "Turn around. Let me see you."

Her lips twitch, but obligingly, she turns.

"No train?"

"No," says Mitch. "It didn't seem sensible, given the time of the year. A second's inattention and it would be plastered in mud."

Charlotte mutters to Kirstie. "Y'know, most wedding dresses only get worn once, but it wouldn't take much to turn yours into great Fet Wear for the clubs afterwards."

I quell her with another look, but she has a point. The corset would give any man itchy fingers. The laces are long and silky and...

I rub at an ear. "I have to agree. That is one helluva dress. Kirstie, you look devastating. Congratulations, Mitch. You've created a masterpiece."

*****

Once we're on our own, Charlotte is rolling eyes...

Wondering if I'm going to blister her ass?

"I've not seen you in a corset recently," I say. "How about it?"

Her face falls. "The last one was a bit of a disaster, Juliana reeling me in like that with the corset as bait. I... I couldn't stand having it around. I threw it away."

I feel a complete heel. And my own performance in that shambles was hardly star-quality. "Um, yes. I understand..." I brush lips over her forehead... "... But that was my fault, not yours. And your father is safe now."

"Hmmm, yes." All the wind has gone from her sails.

"Charlotte, it wasn't your fault. And..." I pat her ass... "You suit a corset just as well as Kirstie."

Her face pops up, mischief dancing the tango over her lips. "I never realised. You fancy Kirstie, don't you?"

My face heats. "Charlotte, you know how Michael and I first met Kirstie. Long before I knew you."

"Yes, I do know. But I'd not realised you still fancy her."

Trying to rescue the tatters of my Stern Dom image, "It's not appropriate. I'm married. I'm her boss. And she belongs to another man."

Charlotte dimples. "You can look at any menu you want so long as you eat at home."

"I'm pleased you see it that way. Now, about that corset..."

*****

KLEMPNER

The barkeep looks up from where he's wiping down the bar. "Yes, sir. What can I get you?"

"I'll have a beer..."

"Coming right up."

"... and another for the little one over by the TV."

His eyes slide sidelong, then he smiles. "I'm sure Mickey won't say no to a free beer."

"I'm sure he won't... ?" I insert the question mark at the end of my sentence.

"Caleb, sir."

"Thank you, Caleb. Have one for yourself too."

"Thank you, sir. I'll do that."

The smiling Caleb serves my drink, takes my money, depositing some of the change in a jar, then moves to the end of the bar where Mickey Miller stands, bottle in hand, expounding some piece of wisdom to a group of three others.

Tipping his head back, he sucks from the neck, then carries on talking, punctuating his speech with flourishes of the bottle. One of his companions disagrees, making some point himself with a similar bottle. Judging by the game on the TV above them, I'd say the four experts are jointly condemning the referee, rewriting footballing history with the correct strategy for play.

Caleb taps him on the shoulder, saying something quiet as he pushes a bottle across the bar. Mickey spins, following the pointing finger. As he sees me, he gawps.

For a moment, his jaw hangs, then he breaks into a beaming smile. Snatching up the beer, he barges toward me. "Hey, great to see you... er..." He pulls up short... "... er... Mr...?"

"Waterman," I say quietly. "Lars Waterman."

His eyes widen, and he nods with a touch of Well, how about that...

"Would your friends like another beer too?"

The smile returns. "Sure they would."

I nod to Caleb who is standing by in time-honoured barman style, polishing glasses and pretending not to hear what's being said around him.

Mickey's three goons grin and wave as they get their beer.

"No girlfriend this time, Mickey?"

He grimaces. "No. I'm kinda off women after the last one."

"I can understand that. Have you fully recovered?"

"Yeah, they fixed me up in the hospital. I'm fine now." He blinks hard a couple of times. "I heard... They said... Juliana had got you. That you wuz dead, Mr Waterman. They told me after I got out of the hospital."

"Is this the same They as in They say 'That horse can't lose'. Or They say 'My dog never bites'?"

He grins. "It could have been them, but no. It was the police commissioner. He came to see me again, to ask me some questions while you wuzn't around."

"Is that right? What did he want to know?"